Gale Force

Table of Contents

 

 

‘‘The forecast calls for . . . a fun read.’’

—Jim Butcher

‘‘A fast-paced thrill ride [that] brings new meaning to stormy weather.’’ —
Locus

‘‘A breath of fresh air in the urban fantasy field.’’

—SF Site

‘‘A kick-butt heroine who will appeal strongly to fans of Tanya Huff, Kelley Armstrong, and Charlaine Harris.’’ —
Romantic Times

‘‘Chaos has never been so intriguing as when Rachel Caine shapes it into the setting of a story. Each book in this series has built in intensity and fascination. Secondary characters blossom as Joanne meets them . . . and twists are revealed that will leave you gasping.’’

—Huntress Book Reviews

‘‘The Weather Warden series is fun reading . . . more engaging than most TV.’’ —
Booklist

‘‘Caine writes with a superquick pace that carries the reader from beginning to end effortlessly. Caine’s writing reminds me of Laurell K. Hamilton in her early days. . . . Dig in to this great new fantasy series.’’

—*Purple Pens

‘‘With chick-lit dialogue and rocket-propelled pacing, Rachel Caine takes the Weather Wardens to places the Weather Channel never imagined!’’

—Mary Jo Putney

‘‘I dare you to put this book down.’’

—
University City Review
(Philadelphia)

Also by Rachel Caine

The Weather Warden Novels

ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2008

Copyright © Roxanne Longstreet Conrad, 2008

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

To the librarians and staff of the New Orleans Public
Library system, struggling to return from the
disaster of Hurricane Katrina. You are truly amazing.

Almost every branch of the NOPL sustained damage
during Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and many are
still closed and in need of renovation.

Donate by visiting the Rebuild Web site:
nutrias.org/~nopl/foundation/katrinafoundationdonation.htm
.

Other Gulf Coast-area libraries are also still in need
of your help. You can find a complete list through
the American Library Association:
www.ala.org/ala/cro/katrina/katrina.htm
.

Please donate generously to bring books back to
those who, like us, want to believe that words can
change the world.

Joe Bonamassa, for giving me
Sloe Gin
and the
inspiration to do this thing.

Prologue

‘‘Honey!’’ I yelled. ‘‘Get the phone, would you?’’ It was ringing off the hook, and I was a little busy trying to put out a fire—a wildfire, actually, blazing across Alligator Alley along the coast of Florida. It had been burning for three long days, sending choking black smoke our way.

Never off duty, that was me. Joanne Baldwin: Weather Warden by first choice—if a world-ending storm blew up without notice, I was the go-to girl. My secondary ability—and second choice—was to act as a Fire Warden, which was what was occupying me at the moment. Being an Earth Warden, helping living things heal and grow, and controlling things such as earthquakes and volcanoes, was also something I could do, though not nearly as reliably or as well. As far as being comfortable with the abilities, having Earth powers was still a distant, weird, cautious third.

I stood on the balcony of my apartment building, my eyes stinging from the whipping wind and drifting smoke, and worked magic. It didn’t look like I was doing much of anything. Truthfully, I probably could have gone inside, picked up the phone, and talked to whatever cold-calling telemarketer was on the other end . . . but I was feeling frustrated, and I needed to do something positive, so I was concentrating, from a distance of several miles away, on rendering burnable underbrush less burnable. These changes would have to be undone later, for safety, but they made dandy firebreaks in the meantime.

Of course, I was interfering with Fire Wardens and Weather Wardens who were already doing their assigned jobs. Well, that was why I was the boss, right? That was what bosses did—interfere. (My bosses always had, anyway, although come to think of it, I hadn’t liked it much when I’d been on the sticky end of the problem.)

The phone quit ringing.
Good,
I thought. Maybe they’d just given up.

The glass door behind me rumbled open on its track. I didn’t turn away from the railing until a man’s hand dangled the phone over my shoulder. I looked at the phone delivery service, eyebrows raised in silent question; David just raised his own in response.

David was always fantastic on the eyes, but he was especially great just now, at sunset, when the red sky picked up bronze tints in his skin and highlighted supernatural sparks in his eyes. Oh, his eyes—currently the rich, dark color of old pennies—were taking on a brighter hue as I watched, because although David was currently wearing human form, and liked to wear it a lot, at a DNA level he was something completely different. We call them Djinn, because the old tales of those supernatural creatures able to do humans’ dirty work were somewhat true.

Of course, these tales were also a whole lot
not
true, as I continued to learn every day.

David was only half dressed, in a pair of worn blue jeans riding low on his hips. There was a lot of tempting gold-dusted skin on display, and so much to admire, from broad shoulders to abs that would make a Greek statue cry with envy.

He usually had a shirt on, but then, David was actuallymore modest than I was. At least, in public. In private . . . well. Let’s just say that when David played at being human, he brought his A game.

David waggled the phone again, significantly. I blinked and took it, thinking that the last thing in the world I wanted just now was to get distracted from enjoying the view. ‘‘Hello?’’

I wasn’t prepared for the volume—or the tirade— that erupted out of the phone. ‘‘Joanne, would you please
butt out
already? Jeez, woman, we
can
save the world without you! Just go relax! Do you even own a dictionary?
Vacation!
Look it up!’’

The voice on the other end was Paul Giancarlo, one of the most powerful element-controlling Wardens in the country. He happened to specialize in weather work; he was also one of my oldest surviving friends. The tone was a strongly Jersey-accented bellow, barely contained by the phone’s speaker. I held the phone farther from my ear. ‘‘Oh, hey, Paul,’’ I said. ‘‘So. How’s that fire going?’’

‘‘The fire is going
fine,
and you need to quit screwing around. You are
not
on duty. I have coverage on the damn fire, and you need to stop—’’

‘‘Helping? Thought you needed it. Because three days is kind of a long time to be breathing smoke—’’

‘‘
Kid.
Stop already. We’re on top of it!’’

I doubted that. ‘‘Let me talk to Lewis.’’ Lewis Levander Orwell, my old college buddy and part-time crush, was the only guy in the entire Wardens organization who still had the right to tell me what to do, a fact that made me a little smug and—yes, I could admit it—a little insufferable.

‘‘Lewis doesn’t want to talk to you. Lewis wants me to tell you to
butt out
. Get it? You’re on vacation. Vacate already.’’

Before I could fire back, Paul hung up on me. I stared at the phone, surprised and a little wounded.

David took it from my fingers, put it on the patio table behind me, and said, ‘‘I assume he told you that you aren’t needed right now. No, actually I don’t assume that. I overheard.’’

‘‘Eavesdropper.’’

‘‘People three doors down heard it,’’ he said. ‘‘It wasn’t a great feat of supernatural detection.’’